As if he could piece her together.
65
Chaol hadn’t been able to move a muscle from the moment the guard cut off Sorscha’s head to the moment Dorian, still kneeling in a pool of her blood, stopped screaming.
“That is what awaits traitors,” the king said to the silent room.
And Chaol looked at the king, at his shattered friend, and drew his sword.
The king rolled his eyes. “Put away your sword, Captain. I’ve no interest in your noble antics. You’re to go home to your father tomorrow. Don’t leave this castle in disgrace.”
Chaol kept his sword drawn. “I will not go to Anielle,” he growled. “And I will not serve you a moment longer. There is one true king in this room—there always has been. And he is not sitting on that throne.”
Dorian stiffened.
But Chaol went on. “There is a queen in the north, and she has already beaten you once. She will beat you again. And again. Because what she represents, and what your son represents, is what you fear most: hope. You cannot steal it, no matter how many you rip from their homes and enslave. And you cannot break it, no matter how many you murder.”
The king shrugged. “Perhaps. But maybe I can start with you.” He flicked his fingers at the guards. “Kill him, too.”
Chaol whirled to the guards behind him and crouched, ready to fight a path out for himself and Dorian.
Then a crossbow snapped and he realized there had been others in the room—hidden behind impossibly thick shadows.
He had only enough time to twist—to see the bolt firing for him with deadly accuracy.
Only enough time to see Dorian’s eyes widen, and the whole room plunge into ice.
•
The arrow froze midflight and dropped to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.
Chaol stared at Dorian in mute horror as his friend’s eyes glowed a deep, raging blue, and the prince snarled at the king, “Don’t you touch him.”
The ice spread across the room, up the legs of the shocked guards, freezing over Sorscha’s blood, and Dorian got to his feet. He raised both hands, and light shimmered along his fingers, a cold breeze whipping through his hair.
“I knew you had it, boy—” the king started, standing, but Dorian threw out a hand and the king was blasted into his chair by a gust of frozen wind, the window behind him shattering. Wind roared into the room, drowning out all sound.
All sound except Dorian’s words as he turned to Chaol, his hands and clothes soaked with Sorscha’s blood. “Run. And when you come back . . .” The king was getting to his feet, but another wave of Dorian’s magic slammed into him, knocking him down. There were tears staining Dorian’s bloody cheeks now. “When you come back,” the prince said, “burn this place to the ground.”
A wall of crackling black hurtled toward them from behind the throne.
“Go,” Dorian ordered, turning toward the onslaught of his father’s power.
Light exploded from Dorian, blocking out the wave, and the entire castle shook.
People screamed, and Chaol’s knees buckled. For a moment, he debated making a stand with his friend, right there and then.
But he knew that this had been the other trap. One for Aedion and Aelin, one for Sorscha. And this one—this one to draw out Dorian’s power.
Dorian had known it, too. Known it, and still walked into it so Chaol could escape—to find Aelin and tell her what had happened here today. Someone had to get out. Someone had to survive.